The Rose of Kenya
by CSI Clue
Summary: Ariadne learns about Yusuf's secret love, and does some matchmaking.
1. Chapter 1

**Yusuf**

On the last group practice, I noticed. That is, I noticed that Ariadne was . . . how to put this delicately? In a particular state. If my sisters were here they would have several far more vulgar terms for the condition; indeed, given how they all had close to the same cycle it was inevitable that they freely tossed around euphemisms of all sorts, most of them bawdy enough to make me blush even now—needing mouse mattresses, and having the painters in, and wearing the sumo belt, and much, much worse-

Growing up as the only brother gave me an early and thorough education in the feminine reproductive cycle denied many other men, believe me, so I knew the signs even if the others did not. Even Arthur, who is extremely fond of Ariadne—and quite possibly in love with her—didn't seem to realize why she was so irritable and off her game. We all woke up at the same time, but it took her a moment longer to shake the effects of the sedative off, and she apologized for the dream collapsing so quickly. Eames didn't seem to mind and thought it all some sort of jolly lark, but Arthur was clearly annoyed, all the more to cover up his concern, I think.

I knew Ariadne would not tell him the reason, at least not with the rest of us around, so I bided my time in packing up the leftover vials of sedative, puttering long enough for Eames and eventually Arthur to leave. Ariadne stayed in her lounge for a while, and when she went to rise, I shook my head at her.

"Relax," I told her, and handed over a bottle of water from the little refrigerator. "Not too fast. Do you need an analgesic?"

She looked at me, forehead wrinkling in that very Ariadne way, and I knew I had to explain. "For your cramps."

Both of us blushed, then, but I fished out a bottle from my case and handed that over too. She took it, checked the label and swallowed two of the capsules very quickly. "Thank you. How . . . how did you know it was that, and not something else, like the flu?"

I smiled. "Six sisters, two aunties, a mother and a grandmother."

That made her blink and then laugh aloud. Ariadne has a lovely laugh; light and honest, the real thing. Hearing it, I knew she was going to be all right, even before the medication hit. I took the pill bottle back from her and added, "The waves rolling in across the lake. They were very odd. Stretched out, higher in the middle than on the ends. I watched them for a while and figured out what they were."

Ariadne blanched a bit. "Do you think the others noticed?"

"That's hard to tell, but I doubt it," I assured her. "Eames was more interested in reaching the castle and Arthur . . ."

" . . . was concerned with the dragon, yes," Ariadne sighed. "It was a pretty good battle."

"Given how you were feeling, I think *you* should have had a hand in slaying it," I told her gently, "instead of contending with the penguins."

"They were Isupposed/I to be peasants," Ariadne sighed. "I just can't do serfs—they always come out as penguins."

Now it was my turn to laugh. "Personally I think it's a marvelous touch, and assures the target that everything is a dream. I know if II/I came face to face with penguins fleeing from a dragon I'd think carefully about what was real or not."

She laughed again, this time more weakly, and I motioned for her to drink more of the water. "In any case, nothing too terrible happened, and in the future, all you need do is tell me, and I'll make sure your sedative has a pain reliever in it as well."

Her eyebrows went up. It's quite an adorable look on her, but I wouldn't risk telling her so—Ariadne detests adjectives that remind her of her diminutive size, and all of us have learned to be careful what we say. Well, all of us but Eames. He gets away with it because he calls everyone 'darling,' even nuns and priests.

"You can do that?" she asked me, and I nodded.

"Come now; you didn't think I earned degrees in pharmacology just to whip up blue Jell-o?"

That got another smile, and I was glad to see it. Ariadne and I shared a few things in common—devotion to science fiction, mutual delight in bad puns, and a love of oddly-coloured food. Silly things, really, but having a friend with similar tastes helped ease some of the loneliness of Paris sometimes.

"Blue Jell-O and black ice cream," she murmured. "I go for some ice cream right now."

"So let us do it," I agreed. "Food in your stomach will help get the medicine moving that much faster. My treat."

She hesitated, but I gave her my most pleading look and Ariadne gave in, as I hoped she would.

**Ariadne**

Yusuf Singh Mehra is a lot smarter than anybody gives him credit for. At least, anybody on our team. Eames rags on him, and I've even seen Arthur give him a little grief—usually over some minor gaffe here or there- but really, the man's incredibly smart.

And . . . kind. That's not a trait in high admiration around here unfortunately, so it makes me feel good to acknowledge it when I can.

He's like a big sunny koala, which doesn't sound flattering, but it is. He's just plain cuddly-looking, and out of all three guys, Yusuf is the one I feel most comfortable with. He's not playfully hitting on me, like Eames, or making me feel completely self-conscious all the time like Arthur—Yusuf is an all-round nice guy.

So of course he'd be the one to clue in that I wasn't feeling good, and the fact that Yusuf knew _why_ didn't surprise me either. Maybe it's because he's a pharmacist and used to watching people closely, or maybe he's just better at picking up non-verbal cues, but whatever it was, I was grateful as hell. My period is awful, to be honest. I'm not regular, like most women, and when it does hit, it hits hard. Most of the time I can take a day off and do some serious pain-relievers, but Arthur made this practice session mandatory, and since it was MY turn to be the subject, I couldn't wiggle out of it.

Penguins. I'm sure Eames will be teasing me about that for weeks.

Anyway, Yusuf and I locked up, and headed down to the little park just off the main road. We walked because it was still sunny, and reached the entrance right as the ice cream van chugged by, playing a very battered recording of _'Für Elise_. We waved to the driver who stopped for us, and bought some cones—two chocolate—and went over to the first free bench to enjoy them.

Heaven. I love a good chocolate, I really do. After the first nibble, I looked at Yusuf. "Ten females in the family, huh?"

"Oh yes," he nodded. "Father and I were out-numbered more often than he wanted to admit, but all in all things worked out for the best, I believe. I've had a thorough grounding in domestic tasks, for one thing."

I nodded. "Yeah, I can see that. No brothers?"

"No, but several boy cousins and neighbors and uncles," Yusuf told me, handing over some napkins. "And boarding school of course. Did you have brothers?"

It was nice to be able to share personal things, so I filled him in on my family situation, throwing in a few stories here and there. Yusuf laughed at the tale about my falling out of the apple tree and landing on my mother's fair entry pie. When I finished, I had to catch up on licks to my cone because it was melting quickly. "And I miss them," I added, because it dawned on me that I did.

Paris is lovely; going to school here is a dream, but every now and then—like when I was hormonal—thoughts of going home would sneak up on me.

"And I my family as well," he nodded. "And my cat, back in Mombassa."

"Cat?" I loved cats.

"Oh yes, Pharmakos. She's a busy beast, always wandering behind the counters looking for crickets—not that very many get in, of course. She was born behind my shop, and although her family all ran off, I kept her and raised her myself—would you like to see a picture of her?"

I was charmed. I mean, seriously—a guy who carries a picture of his cat is just . . . cute. I nodded, and he fished out his wallet and pulled a little snapshot out. There was a cat in it all right, a hefty tabby, but I was more interested in the thin, dark woman holding it. When I looked at Yusuf, he was looking at her too, and something in his gaze told me that she meant as much to him as the cat did.

When he saw me waiting for an explanation, he sort of blushed. "And that is Cecily."

I looked again, and his finger lightly touched her image. "Cecily Esiankiki Barongo," he murmured, and it was all in the way her said her name that I realized he was in love with her. Yusuf gave a little sigh and put the photo back, giving me one of those embarrassed smiles that come to him so easily, and I knew I had to be careful what I said.

"They're both gorgeous," I offered, and it was the right thing, because he chuckled, and nodded.

"Cecily is watching Pharmakos right now, in fact. I gave her strict instructions not to give into any begging, but if I know my cat, it is useless. Cecily has always had a very soft spot for animals—once she brought me a _frog _she'd found on her way to work, and wanted me to keep it until she could release it safely! A frog!"

"What kind of frog?" I wanted to know.

"It doesn't matter!" he told me with mock-indignation. "When people come to my pharmacy, they do not expect to see a frog on the counter! I run a modern facility, not some Chinese herbalist shop!"

I nodded smirking for a moment. "Is she . . . your wife?"

Yusuf gave a sad little shake of his head. "How I _wish, _but alas, no. She doesn't even know . . ." he hesitated, and I picked up the unfinished part easily enough so I reached over and patted his shoulder.

"So *tell* her how you feel."

He shot me an exasperated look over the top of his cone. "Oh yes, because it's such a simple thing to do, I suppose. Some of are not as brave as you, Ariadne; some of us cannot _just_ stride in and announce the depth of our feelings so easily."

I wanted to laugh but I didn't; he was so indignant and wry at the same time, a little smile on his face. Yusuf laughed at himself though, and I shook my head.

"I'm not particularly brave, and in this circumstance, I choose to have her my friend rather than lose her," he admitted.

"How long have you known her?"

His smile was tinged with sadness. "Nearly five years now."


	2. Chapter 2

**Yusuf**

Cecily. I can remember the exact day that I met her, which is amazing considering that my memory is generally mediocre. Oh I can cope with facts and formulas pertinent to my work, and I have the normal human capacity for phone numbers and film plots.

But when it comes to Cecily, my mental hard drive lets her take up all the space allotted and beyond.

It was four years, two months and six days ago, to be precise. My sister Harsha was still in school and struggling to finish before my family left Mombasa, and I was working hard to convince my mother that I could run the pharmacy on my own once they did. It was a busy time, and between the ongoing discussions with my parents and all the new duties I was learning for the business, I wasn't the most social of young men.

Then Harsha brought her friend home for a study session. I remember opening the door and seeing the most beautiful young lady standing there, smiling. Oooooh that smile. It has haunted me ever since; that bright flash of white teeth set in lush exotic lips, and those chocolate dark eyes. I was and am, smitten by Cecily's smile.

I said something stupid I'm sure, but whatever it was Cecily was gracious and Harsha came over to introduce her friend and THAT was when I learned her melodious name. Cecily Esiankiki Barongo, a glorious string of eleven syllables that I delight in. I suppose that if I marry her she will hyphenate her last name and then be Cecily Esiankiki Barango-Mehra, which sounds very nice to me as well.

She and Harsha went into the living room and settled in at the coffee table there, spreading books out and giggling, and I know I wandered past over twenty times; often enough for Harsha to tell me to go away. I tried. I did try, but the beautiful beacon of Cecily's smile was like a searchlight to the little dazzled moth of my brain. It still is at times; I have never seen another quite like hers. It's shy and sweet and welcomes the recipient in like a pond of cool water in the scorching desert.

Harsha, for all her exasperating ways has a good heart, though, and understood my situation well before I did. After she and I escorted Cecily home—very wise, given the neighborhoods in Mombassa, she turned to me and rapped me on the shoulder, hard. "So, you like Cecily, do you? Good. Now mother can stop wondering if you're gay or not."

"I'm not _gay_," was all I could reply for the moment, stung but not surprised. I was already past the age at which my parents and grandparents had been married, and I knew my mother and father had been harboring suspicions for a while now, although they had never asked me directly about my romantic and personal preferences. Given how old-fashioned my parents are, this was not exactly a surprise.

"Not with the way you were staring at her, no, I suppose you're not," my sister snorted. "Although I don't think it will work, Yusuf. She's . . ." and Harsha leaned close to whisper in my ear, ". . . oblivious to you."

Such a painful truth. Worse than if Harsha had pointed out that Cecily was Christian and black, both of which would be difficult for my parents to accept.

Something of my despair must have shown on my face because Harsha immediately looked regretful and added. "But I'll talk you up, I promise."

I shot my sister a dry look; her version of my charms was sure to be slightly brutal. "Wonderful. I suppose you'll let her know I change my underwear regularly and I hardly ever pick my nose."

She laughed. "Maybe a bit better than that. She'd be good for you." And with that little backhanded blessing, Harsha kept her word. I was chosen—ordered to tutor the girls in mathematics, and to walk Cecily home afterwards. Harsha made sure that Cecily was invited along for family outings to the shore, and dinner regularly.

My mother liked Cecily well enough; one more girl in a houseful was no major problem, and Cecily enjoyed herself with us. Her own house was full with two older brothers and a somewhat stern father, her mother having died many years ago.

I had met Cecily's father a few times; Father Jordan Malamaki Barongo is an austere, lean man who looked as if he had been preserved by the desert sand. I know he was well-thought of by his congregation and the neighborhood, but to me he was always a slightly ferocious representative of the African Episcopal church. What he thought of me I didn't know—most of the time I barely rated a nod and a 'thank you, young man' when I escorted Cecily home in the evenings.

Because of my tutoring—or perhaps in spite of it—both Harsha and Cecily graduated with honors from the nursing program just as my father finalized his plans for returning to India. I had persuaded my parents to let me run the pharmacy, and although I would miss them, the chance to live on my own was a very welcome opportunity indeed.

**Ariadne**

I thought about Yusuf and his situation off and on for the next couple of weeks. I don't think I'm a romantic person at heart; I've seen the ups and downs of relationships all through my life, and I'm not in any rush to jump into one myself right now.

But something about Yusuf's sad little status quo bothered me. He was _such_ a good man, and out of all of us on the team, he struck me as the one who could handle a real life. Let's be honest—Eames wasn't the sort to settle down, and Arthur was the consummate professional, cute as he is. And as for myself, I've got my life plan laid out, and love/marriage is waaay down the line, after my doctorate at the very least.

But Yusuf—gentle, sweet Yusuf—deserved better.

I don't generally stick my nose into things without an invitation, but when Yusuf tumbled down the warehouse stairs a month later, I saw an opportunity right then and there. Arthur and I took him to the Emergency room and helped get him attended to, posing as concerned friends, which we were.

At least, _I _was. Anyway, it was a matter of supplying his emergency contact information, and thanks to my eidetic memory I filed away the details pertaining to Miss Barongo pretty quickly as he muttered them to the intake nurse.

Turned out Yusuf had a broken ankle and a mild concussion; nothing too serious, but enough to stunt his mobility for a while. When the hospital released him, Arthur took our chemist back to his hotel, and I made a quick call. The two-hour time difference wasn't too bad, and Miss Barongo had a charming accent—a sort of British, sort of African lilt to her voice.

I introduced myself and the minute I mentioned Yusuf and the accident she got alarmed, but I managed to calm her down and explain that while he was going to be all right, it would be good to come to Paris if she could. She agreed that was an excellent plan, and that after checking in with her nursing supervisor, she would take the first Corsair flight out of Mombasa for Charles De Gaulle airport.

It dawned on me that Miss Barongo would need someone to pick her up, and a place to stay, so I started working on that end of the situation, amused despite myself. As I said, I'm not a matchmaker, but Yusuf was going to need someone to take care of him, and since his friend was a nurse, it was all falling into place very well.

By seven the next morning, I was at the airport, waiting for the arrivals and curious to see if Cecily Barongo was among the passengers. I watched several people pass by; businessmen, a few dashiki-clad travelers, a family of four with two lively toddlers. Paris pulls in so many different cultures, and for me, that's part of the joy of living here.

Finally, a slender black woman came down the walkway, looking around uncertainly. She wore a khaki skirt and plain white blouse, and her hair was a pretty crown of frizzy curls, like a dandelion puff. I waved and called to her. "Ms. Barongo?"

She looked at me gratefully, and nodded. "You must be Ari-adne; please call me Cecily. Yusuf has spoken of you off-ten."

It was a great accent, very lyrical, and I could see how Yusuf would melt like butter around it. I shook Cecily's hand. "Good to meet you, Cecily. Flight okay?"

"Long," she admitted, and I could see some strain around her eyes. "How is Yusuf?"

"Probably sleeping at this point," I told her. "Look, let me take you to the dormitory so you can shower and take a good long nap, and I'll drive you over in the afternoon. Fair enough?"

Cecily looked as if she wanted to argue a little, but practicality won out and I watched her purse that wide pretty mouth before she reluctantly nodded. "That makes a great deal of sense. Thank you so much."

It didn't take too long to get her situated; one of the things I like about being a teaching assistant at the University is being able to pull a few strings here and there thanks to professor Miles. The dormitory room was one of the renovated ones, and cheap, especially now on the tail end of the holidays. I dropped her off and let her get some rest, feeling pretty good myself about it.

Because I didn't have much to do for the rest of the day, I went back to the warehouse and ran into Arthur there, programming the robot shop vacs. Two of them were circling his shoes, and the other was upside down on one of the tables, looking like a flipped beetle. Arthur was pulling out bits of fluff from the underside with a pair of tweezers and singing.

Singing, yep. I think it was some old Three Dog Night song, but I couldn't be sure because he stopped the minute he spotted me.

"What are you working on, Mad Doctor Fiend-O?" I asked.

He pointed the tweezers at me. "I'm not mad, I'm sanity-challenged, and in this case, I'm de-fuzzing a household appliance that was never meant to deal with packing excelsior. How's Yusuf?"

"Good and about to get better," I replied, feeling a little smug. Arthur picked up something in my tone because he arched an eyebrow at me.

Nobody arches an eyebrow like Arthur. It's classic.

"I . . . called his girlfriend, in Kenya, and she flew out."

"Yusuf's got . . . a girlfriend?" This came out in sort of a disbelieving tone, and I gave him my best glare, because after all, Yusuf _is_ handsome, in his own way. Certainly loveable.

"Yessss," I assured him huffily. "I picked her up at the airport myself. He'll heal faster with her to keep an eye on him."

"Is that a fact?" Now Arthur was deliberately teasing me. He's very dry about it, but I can tell when he's trying to get my goat.

So I nodded, and hopped up on the table next to the fluff-ectomy. "Hey, he's far from home and feeling a little vulnerable; I figured it would be a nice surprise to have her around."

Arthur shot me a wary look. "You mean he doesn't _know _she's here?"

"Not yet," I admitted, feeling a little flush. "But it's a _good _kind of surprise, right?"

Now the look Arthur was giving me was just really . . . weird.

Men.


	3. Chapter 3

**Cecily**

I confess that when I received the call from Miss Ariadne I wasn't sure what to think. Yusuf had told me time and again that his work was safe and that he never had to do anything dangerous. I'm not sure I believed him, not even in the beginning, but for the sake of peace and dignity I nodded.

Dear sweet man. Yusuf is one in a thousand; a million perhaps—smart and funny and wise and never one to put himself forward. His virtues are many, although he doesn't think so, and we've been friends forever. I remember when we first met, back when his sister and I were trying so hard to grasp higher mathematics for nursing school. He was so wise and aloof then, clearly the brilliant one of the family.

And handsome, although he's never believed that either, but I beg to differ. I prefer a man with some meat on his bones; someone solid and strong. My father tells me that it's my mother's nature, and that the instinct to feed and nurture was one of the reasons he married her. But I digress, and my admiration for Yusuf Singh Mehra has but grown over the years.

A good man, he. He never laughed at my ambitions, never made fun of my twice repaired skirts or overly big mouth. Even when my brothers made me cry with their teasing, Yusuf was always kind to me, and reassured me that I would be all right.

And I confess, my feelings for him have . . . grown. Oh I know that no one should put stock in a girlish crush, but in the last few years I've seen him in a new light. Yusuf has changed from the all-knowing older brother of my schoolmate Harsha into one of the people I like the best in my circle of friends. He never forgets my birthday, always remembers how I take my coffee and in many, many ways is my best friend.

A friend I wish was . . . more than a friend.

Nevertheless, I tried not to be impatient for Ariadne to take me to see him. I was up and ready well before she stopped in, and I know my eagerness must have amused her, but she didn't say anything, just brought me to the hotel where Yusuf was staying.

At the door, Ariadne turned to me and her expression was slightly embarrassed. "I have to tell you, Cecily, that I when I called you, I um, didn't tell Yusuf you were coming. Did you call him yourself?"

"I tried," I told her, feeling foolish. "But he wasn't answering. I assumed that he _knew!_ Ariadne . . ." What could I say? We were outside his door now, and I wasn't going to leave, but all sorts of horrible thoughts occurred to me, and my face was red.

But it was too late; Ariadne had knocked, and a familiar voice had already called us to come in. Before what courage I had left could fail me, I stepped inside, quickly, pushed by concern for Yusuf.

Oh the poor man. He was sitting in his boxers on the loveseat, his lower left leg in a splint, a book in his hands, and his expression when he saw me made me laugh.

"Ce-Ce-Cecily!" he managed, but I simply could not hold myself back, and I darted over to hug him. The book fell; I heard it, but my attention was on Yusuf and how good it was to squeeze him.

He's always warm, and there is something about the scent of his skin that makes me smile; something a little citrusy and clean. For a long moment he hugged me back as I bent to him.

So very, very good to hold him, oh yes. And to _be _held. I confess I lingered, and released him only with reluctance, not pulling back too far. It was good to see his astonishment shift to pleasure, if only until he realized he was in his underwear.

"Ohhhhh, I didn't know you were coming, oh my. Cecily. You're really here, ohh!" he babbled, going pink around the edges of his face.

"Of course I'm here! What's all this about you falling down a flight of stairs! That's not allowed, Doctor Mehra," I told him firmly, but with a smile. "What happened?"

"I—" He began, and tried to sit up, "—tripped. The stairs were cement and very unforgiving, so I ended up at the bottom. Who told you—Ariadne!"

This last was to my compatriot, who brought over a blanket from the closet, and tried not to smile as she did so.

"She _was_ your emergency contact," I heard Ariadne point out.

"And it was very right of her to contact me in this situation," I added. "Pharmakos is with Jacob and the dreamers in the basement, and I have two weeks of emergency leave from the clinic. Now where are your treatment and discharge papers?"

"Cecily, you shouldn't be wasting your leave on me!" he protested, but I wasn't about to let him win *that* argument.

**Yusuf**

I have always had difficulty in believing in deities. My childhood home was never very big on observing faith to any great degree—oh we paid lip service to the holidays and my parents _did_ instill the basic understandings along with a moral code to promote the good in this life.

But when Cecily stepped through the door of my hotel room, I felt as if I were suddenly in debt to some incredibly generous higher power. I had been given a personal, beautiful undeserved blessing out of the blue.

Then when I remembered I was in my underwear, I wondered a bit about the comic timing of the cosmic being out there.

But still—Cecily! The one person I secretly had wanted by my side!

The practical part of me kept focusing on her nursing skills. The personal part of me simply wanted the comfort of HER—cool hands, sweet smile, gently reassurance that I was going to be all right.

I'm not a hypochondriac; my health is generally good despite a tendency to plumpness and a few vision problems. But being in a strange city and at the mercy of friends of such short acquaintance . . . it's enough to unnerve most people. I am no exception to that, alas.

I will not lie; Cecily's hug made me tear up a bit. Never before had the warm squeeze of someone so dear felt so good, and I knew that sooner or later I would have to admit as much to her.

But for the moment, just having her here was enough to cope with. I pointed an accusing finger at Ariadne, but she was gone.

"She told me she'd be back in a few hours," Cecily assured me, "she wanted to give us some privacy I think." As an afterthought she added, "Ariadne's quite nice."

"Yes," I mumbled, a bit annoyed that I couldn't chide my dreamscape coworker the way I wanted to. It's one thing to let her hear my secret affections, and quite another for Ariadne to play matchmaker with them. Part of me worried what she might have let slip to Cecily, and I tried to look innocent.

Not easy for a man in his undergarments, I assure you.

Cecily, however, was far more interested in my ankle than my guilt, and promptly checked the wrappings when I flipped the lower part of the blanket back. She cast a gimlet eye over the two prescription bottles on the coffee table.

"All right, Yusuf, tell me precisely what happened," she ordered.

I did.

Once I confessed to my own clumsiness, and the painful tale of the aftermath, Cecily reached over and touched my cheek. It was a kind gesture, and bolder than any she'd done beyond hugs. I savored her cool fingers.

"Well then, I suppose you'll need to return for casting, and after that, your mobility will be limited by chair and crutches for a while," she told me. "How do you feel? Do you need any dosages at the moment?"

I grimaced. "I could use an analgesic."

"All right then," Cecily smiled and rose.

We chatted; of Pharmakos, and Harsha, and Green Banana Street, and her job at the geriatric clinic, where Cecily oversaw the medication distribution among the residents there. They were easy things to talk about, but the entire time, I found myself watching Cecily, noting all her beautiful features and manners in this very different setting.

And I loved her just as much, which unnerved me somehow. I cannot explain it, but it wasn't being injured that had me feeling restless and off my feed. Perhaps the vulnerability came from having my unspoken wish granted in the form of Cecily being here.

Here to take care of me.

Consequently, I realized that now I was caught between the comfort of her presence and the apprehension of making some faux pas that would drive her away.

Putting on my pants was a nightmare. I insisted she stay in the WC, and struggled to get the damned slacks over my injured leg without assistance. Cecily let me struggle for ten minutes, then came out and promptly tugged them up herself, murmuring softly and turning away when I did up the fly.

"I do this sort of thing for a living, you know," she reminded me. "Nothing to be ashamed of, truly."

"I'm not seventy-three, though," I argued. "Nor am I arthritic or senile."

"Harsha would argue about that last," Cecily responded, making me laugh and when I did, she smiled too. "There, that's better. How are we getting to hospital, Yusuf?"

"They're sending a van," I told her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Cecily**

The break was a clean one, not requiring any pins or surgery, thank goodness. Casting Yusuf's lower leg was a minor affair, and the green fiberglass looked rather good as casts go. I listened carefully to what the doctor said, determined to follow his directives to the letter of course. Yusuf was brave, and not as awkward as I'm sure he thought he was. Part of knowing him so well is seeing how much alike we are; we both hate to look foolish.

The van took us back again, and I rolled Yusuf into the room, feeling somewhat tired. My body clock was still on Mombasa time, and I wanted nothing more than to nap, but first it was important to make sure my dear friend was fed and dosed.

"You need a nap," he told me when I yawned for the third time. "Cecily, please—take the bed. I'll be fine on the sofa catching up with my Email. Rest will do you good."

Since I wasn't sure when Ariadne would return, I agreed. There was another reason too, and once the door was closed, I lay down. Although I consider myself a mature sort of person, traveling this far was new to me, and the mingled homesickness and sorrow would have overwhelmed me if I hadn't had the soft scent of Yusuf on the pillow. That, and the knowledge that he was close by.

I slept much better than I had at the dormitory, and although I didn't remember dreaming, I probably did. When I awoke, the light was nearly gone, and I felt guilty. Out in the little living room I peeked, and Yusuf was reading, his glasses down along the end of his nose as he studied the abstract in his hands.

Abstracts—the man never stops doing research. I stepped out and he looked up at me, smiling. "Ah! Rested now?"

"You should not have let me sleep so long," I told him, feeling embarrassed at how his gaze skimmed over me. I have always liked Yusuf's eyes, which are dark, like mine, but so wise and kind.

"And deny you what you so clearly needed?" he shook his head. "I know what the flight was like, Cecily. In the bathroom, on the counter is a little bottle with a green label—a blend of B vitamins and Zinc I made for myself. You should take one, with water. It _will_ help."

He was so authoritative and I knew he was right. Yusuf knows medications and vitamins like know one else, so I turned around and did exactly what he advised. When I returned, he waved me over, making room for me on the sofa. I sat, feeling somewhat shy now, and we didn't speak for a moment.

"I . . . suppose I should call Ariadne," I murmured, with reluctance, not wanting to leave. I knew I should, but oh how I longed to stay.

Ridiculous, of course. He was a man, I was a woman, and we were not married, or engaged or related in any way; although Paris is far more sophisticated than Mombasa, my mindset has always been very traditional.

"Yes," Yusuf agreed, sounding a bit forlorn. That pleased me, and I looked over to see him staring.

"Yusuf, why are you here?" I asked him.

I knew, vaguely, that it was probably Dream-associated. Yusuf is one of the very best sedative chemists in the world, and although many companies have expressed interest in hiring him, he prefers to work alone. I know he has a bit of a maverick streak to his nature; the very fact that he hosts a dreaming den in his basement speaks to that, and although I don't always approve of the process, I know he feels very responsible for those he treats.

"My associates needed my expertise," he mumbled in a tone of voice that told me I shouldn't press for details.

"And now? Can you still provide it, given the shape your ankle is in?"

"Yes," came his reply, and this time I saw the caution in his eyes. "Cecily, it's more than a matter of finance. I owe these people my support throughout this mission."

I nodded, not wanting to hear more. This was not a matter for me to worry about—at least, not for now. Yusuf and I had never actually discussed anything about his trips away from Mombasa, and I wasn't going to pry.

"Very well. Tomorrow . . . you will be busy?" I regretted it the minute I asked when I realized how . . . needy I sounded. Like the some little girl whining for attention.

"We both shall," Yusuf surprised me, and smiled. "I need to get back to work, my dear, and I'm fairly sure you won't let me unless you're at my side. Are you willing to do that?"

How easy, how simple to take his hand and nod.

**Yusuf**

Introducing Cecily to the rest of the team was a study in caution for me. Ariadne was supportive, having already met her, but Arthur was far more cautious under his polite greeting. I suspected our point man was forever assessing people in respect to whatever mission was underway. I didn't have the right to begrudge that, but part of me did of course; Cecily is an innocent, and deserves to stay so.

My greater worry was Eames, and the minute he smiled at Cecily, a curious wave of resentment rolled in my stomach.

"I've seen you before, Miss Barango," Eames told her, holding out that big hand of his. "It_ is_ Miss, isn't it? On Green Banana Street, right?"

"Yes," Cecily nodded, "You've been to Doctor Mehra's pharmacy as well, I think."

At the mention of my title, I blushed; Arthur's brows went up and Eames, damn him, chuckled. It's hard enough to get respected, and I earned the degree the hard way, but Cecily's . . . reverent tone had me caught between pleasure and embarrassment.

"Yes indeed," Eames drawled. "I _have_ been to the good . . . doctor's . . . establishment."

"And right now, we need his expertise at work over there at the dosage lab," Arthur pointed out. Just like that, everyone went to work; Cecily rolled my chair towards my station and I spoke to her in a low voice.

"Ignore Eames; he's quite pompous at times," I murmured, reaching for one of my reports to check on a few numbers.

"Handsome is as handsome does," Cecily replied, making me smirk. How well she puts things!

In the end though, she proved invaluable, running errands, helping out Ariadne with one of the models and taking notes for Eames while he broke into various databases to retrieve information. I was proud of Cecily for helping out, and fitting in so easily. Within a few hours the team was ready, and I knew I'd be supervising them as they went under.

It would be in two days, in a waiting room at the podiatrist's of all things—my wheelchair would be perfect cover. The team would go in on Ariadne's dream and with careful work, manage to pull the information within ten minutes or so and all would be done, with luck. Until then, we waited—something we were all familiar with, alas.

One by one the others left; Eames, then Ariadne and Arthur. I promised to lock up once I was done packaging the somnacin, and Arthur agreed. It was nearing twilight, and I was feeling a bit hungry, so I was considering asking Cecily to a nice Moroccan restaurant I knew of when she spoke up, breaking into my thoughts.

"Yusuf, may we . . . Dream?"

A thousand startled thoughts jumped in my head at that, and I know I must have looked stunned. Cecily was trying not to laugh, but I saw in her lovely eyes that she was serious, despite her smothered chuckles.

"Here? Now?" I managed.

"Well, the equipment is available, as is some privacy," she replied softly. "I've never done it, and it would be . . . helpful to experience it at least once, to . . . understand what you do."

I considered it to cover my surprise, and the idea had appeal. Certainly I'd dreamt enough myself to have some degree of control from within, and if we used the sample dose size, we would be under for no longer than a few minutes at the most. . .

"Are you sure?" I checked, looking over at her face, scanning her expression for fear or doubt. There was some trepidation in her eyes, but nothing overt, and I was . . . touched . . . that Cecily trusted me so.

"Yes," she replied softly. "It would help so much to know what it's like, Yusuf. I know I will be safe . . . with you."

Such faith! I looked into her beautiful eyes and had I not already been in love with her, I surely would have fallen right then. As it was, I merely nodded, and blushed.

Ten minutes later we went under, me in the wheelchair and Cecily stretched out on one of the chaise lounges. I caught a glimpse of her before I dropped off, and she looked like Sleeping Beauty . . .

I built a section of Diani beach, close enough to one from Mombasa, but not exactly so. The date palms were much taller, the water cleaner and not filled with ships from the port. We were on a terrace, at the rail, and I was rather pleased with the design. I'm not anywhere near Ariadne's levels, but since I had no intention of eluding anyone, it was acceptable.

"It's home!" came Cecily's gasp, and I turned to smile at her. My smile grew as I observed the beautiful gauzy sari my mind had dressed her in. Gold of course, with threads of chocolate and coffee woven through it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Cecily**

It was like magic. I'd heard enough about the process, and I'd read up on both dreaming and Dreaming, but this amazing sweep into such a beautiful setting was nothing short of magic. My father would never approve of such practices, but here and now, this experience with Yusuf had me slightly speechless as I looked over a bay as beautiful as a postcard.

"Is it always like this?" I asked, turning to look at Yusuf. He was smiling at me, and sunshine dappled the terrace as it came between the shadows of the date palms.

"It's whatever the dreamer chooses," he told me. "In a dream, anything is possible."

"And this is _your_ dream?"

"This time, yes," Yusuf reminded me. "But _you_ are filling it. The people are all parts of your thoughts."

He looked happy, beaming at me, and I loved the way the breeze stirred his curls. Impulsively I took his hand, delighted to share this moment with him. "Can we walk? Go places here?"

"Of course," he agreed, and his fingers lightly squeezed mine. "Anywhere you wish to go, Ceci."

The old nickname—I had not been called that in a long time. His mother had started it, years ago, and to hear it from Yusuf made me blush. It was only when I looked down that I realized how I was dressed—another surprise. Rather helplessly I gazed at the sari, discomfited and yes, under that, secretly delighted. "Ohhhhh. How did-?"

"I'm sorry," he murmured, abashed. "Whenever I think of home, and all that I love in it . . . I pull all the best together. You _do_ look nice in it."

"Dress-up," I blurted, stroking my free hand over the delicate fabric. "I tried on one of Harsha's years ago, remember?"

When he nodded, I blushed. To cover myself, I tugged his hand, and we went down the terrace steps into the sand. It was warm, and I laughed, delighted with how much like home it truly was. The only thing missing was scent, but other than that, everything was beautiful.

There were people on the beach—a drink vendor's cart, and sunbathers and tourists. Most were smiling at us, and I smiled back. I also was still holding Yusuf's hand, and he didn't seem to mind at all as we strolled along. The day was bright, but somehow there was no glare, no need to squint.

"I can see why people like this!" I told Yusuf happily. "To be lucid in the best and brightest setting—that's _very_ tempting."

"There are charms," he admitted. "Perfect weather and delightful company, but there are drawbacks too, Ceci. Some of the senses are . . . impaired."

"Oh?" I couldn't think of what he meant, but he nodded his head to the vendor's cart.

"Taste, and scent, for most people. A few have all of them intact, but not many."

"But—!" I meant to ask more, but a woman bumped into me; she apologized for knocking me against Yusuf and hurried on across the sand. I stared after her, and he tried to soothe me.

"She's protecting you . . . I think," he murmured, hands along my upper arms. I didn't mind leaning back against him, to be honest. The knowledge that Yusuf was there, supporting me felt very good, and I turned my head just as he turned his . . . so near.

The sun, and the sea and the sand. Standing there, pressed against his chest. . .

Yusuf didn't move away and his eyes! So intense! My stomach fluttered. We were so close now, and all of me felt pulled; drawn towards him with a tip of my face up to his in what I knew would be very . . . good . . .

A blink, and suddenly I was looking up at a glass ceiling, with darkness beyond it. Sadness pierced me with needles of regret even as I blushed, all too aware of how *close* I had been to—

Yusuf cleared his throat and I looked over to see him sitting up, his own moon face flushed. "So! Um . . . that is . . . what dreaming is like . . ."

"Yes," I replied dumbly. "I . . . can see now why people choose it."

"Yes," he echoed, and I realized he sounded as hollow as I felt. "Still, it will never take the place of reality. Sweet as things might be in a dream, they're not real, and it's dangerous to think that they are."

Confused I looked at him, my mouth slightly dry with fear. Was he regretting the Dream? Yusuf turned his wheelchair away, and I slowly rose from the chaise, feeling a rush of sorrow deep inside.

I had been a fool to think that Yusuf might care for me the way I cared for him; that was apparent now.

Without a word, I carefully tugged the micro-needle lead out and reached for a sterile wipe to clean my wrist, but Yusuf leaned over and took it from me, turning my wrist up and lightly dabbing at it.

His fingers were warm, and damp.

"Ceci, I'm sorry. I never meant to . . . make you uncomfortable. Dreams are tricky places, and sometimes we don't have as much control over ourselves there as in the waking world," he murmured without looking at me.

I blinked. "But . . . I am the one who should apologize. After all, it was _my_ dream."

"You did nothing untoward!" Yusuf protested. "_I_ was the one at fault, _I_ was the one who very nearly . . . put everything at risk."

**Yusuf**

Fool, fool that I was . . . I could not believe how quickly everything might have been undone in a moment. The only excuse I could make was that everything had been so perfect in that glorious second. Cecily looked so exquisite in the sari, and when she stumbled against me, it seemed so natural to hold her—

-and very nearly kiss her. I should be grateful the Dream ended before I thoroughly shocked the daylights out of Cecily, but in truth how I'd _wanted _to kiss her.

Just once, even if only in a dream.

But back here in reality, far from my too-tall palms and overly-bright beach it is easy to see that this was better for both of us. I tried to believe it, to see the sense in it.

But it was difficult. Cecily looked so . . . upset. I quietly cursed myself for my regrettable impulses and busied myself packing up the Pasiv as the silence grew between us, empty and . . . emptier.

Then, the silence broke with a small sound that broke my heart: a sniffle. When I looked up, Cecily quickly turned her face, but not before I'd seen the glittering streaks of tears down her cheeks.

In one bleak second I saw my entire future in wet ashes, and the panic of that galvanized me. "No! Cecily please don't cry. I'm so very not good with crying, please, dear!"

I babbled; I do that when I am at a loss, and the prospect of losing Cecily was enough to make me sound like some idiot stream, words cascading as I tried to stem the flow of her tears. Somehow I managed to catch her thin wrist again, and tug her closer; she didn't resist, and by sweet, dear luck, she crumpled into my arms so I could sit her in my lap.

So light, so warm—I held her, still talking like some gabbling fool, wiping her tears with my thumbs, and trying to hold her face so I could look in her eyes, bringing Cecily closer to me. She clung to me, and tried to say something, but I couldn't really hear her, I was too _afraid _to hear what she might say.

Never have I felt such a distress and delight at the same time, and I found myself nuzzling her, breathing in the perfume of her skin, brushing my lips against the wetness of her tears and suddenly it was no longer about comforting my little gazelle, oh no . . .

I was kissing her. There can be no doubt; my mouth pressed to Cecily's, and the absolute softness of her full-lipped, tender kiss sent volts of joyous _fire_ through my veins.

I couldn't breathe, I couldn't talk, and most certainly I couldn't STOP since I wasn't thinking either. Instinct is an odd, odd thing, and has the capacity to take the reins away from a person's rationality. In this case, I was, as Eames would so inelegantly put it, snogging up a storm.

And wonder of wonders, Cecily was kissing me back! I dimly felt her hands cup the back of my head, keeping me close—not that I was about to pull away. Deep into a second kiss, the irresistible urge to taste her lips made me bold enough to open mine, and what had been blissful before was now a delicious pleasure as she did the same.

Not that I wish to kiss and tell, but Cecily and I, well—it was quite a while before we stopped. Long enough for night to fall and all the streetlights come on outside the warehouse. I had no true sense of time, only of my dear one in my arms. Finally though, she pulled away after one last kiss and sighed, a sweet gusty sound that I echoed.

"Yusuf, for the last few years I have wanted to do that," she murmured, shy now as she played with a curl of my hair. "I never thought I would."

"Years?" I repeated, smiling at her. "You were not alone. My God, Cecily, you don't know how long I've been . . . waiting. Hoping, but not brave enough . . ."

"No, _I'm_ the one not brave, my sweet!" Cecily protested, laughing. "I would come into your pharmacy and pass the time, wishing I had the courage to say something that would tell you how I felt—"

"—And I would sit in my pharmacy, hoping you would come in so that I too, might have a chance to tell you of my feelings," I broke in, feeling amused frustration. "So the two of us have been dancing around each other without even knowing it!"

"So it seems," Cecily laughed. "I had no idea you cared for me in any way beyond friendship, Yusuf!"

"Well I do," I huffed. "And have, for almost as long as I've known you! Honestly, Ceci, the day Harsha brought you home . . ." I shook my head, ruefully amazed at how much time had been . . . wasted. I reached over to lift her chin and look into her eyes.

Such eyes—I suppose a man in love always sees his beloved as beautiful, but in all honesty, Cecily does have _astoundingly _beautiful eyes.

"Cecily, I love you," I managed in a voice that was not nearly as steady as I would have liked. "I have for so very long—"

My reward for this confession was another warm kiss as Cecily surged upwards against my mouth, and for a while we didn't need to speak.


	6. Chapter 6

**Cecily**

I had always heard that when you achieve happiness, it is a fleeting thing, because the pursuit was what mattered and not always the goal. I don't believe it, especially now. Striving towards happiness is the course of life, but reaching what you want doesn't lessen the joy, particularly in this case. I am happy; Yusuf loves me and I love him.

I settled Yusuf in at his hotel and left him—reluctantly—to return to the dormitory to get some sleep. I was sure I'd have difficulty, but I dropped off very quickly—perhaps it was the sweet comfort of knowing that matters between my beloved and I were now . . . at least out in the open now.

In the morning, I dressed with care, and took a taxi to the hotel, arriving in time to join him at breakfast in his room. At first I was hesitant stepping in, but when Yusuf smiled and warmly kissed me, all was indeed well. We chatted over toast and eggs and jam, awkwardly at first, but matters became easier as we ate.

"So what now?" I asked, feeling my stomach do twists. This is not a good sensation when it is full of toast, but I have always tried to face facts and look to the future.

Yusuf looked surprised. "Now? I suppose I will have to speak to your father, and listen to all the reasons why I will not do as a suitor, and then I will promise to raise our children as Christians and he will grumble a little, and ask me if I truly love you and I will tell him yes, and that will be that."

I laughed. "Yusuf!"

He managed to look both worried and slightly smug. "Tell me where I was wrong."

"Assumptions, for one. How do you know I will even marry you?" I couldn't help but tease. "All of this is so sudden!"

Yusuf tipped his head and looked at me. "Yes, because five years of courtship are not enough, I see." He took my hand and kissed it; the touch of his warm lips on my knuckles made me a little weak, I confess. "Ceci, I love you, and now I know you love me as well. There is no 'if' in this matter, only a 'when' my gazelle, and I will be content to wait however long or short you deem it."

I blushed, but his words were sweet and to my heart, true. We _had_ been courting all this time, albeit in a backward fashion, and there were no others I wanted. In my heart it had always beenYusuf, even if I was reluctantly shy to admit that to him.

"My father," I said, "Has known you and your family for a long time, and I don't think this will be a surprise to him, although he may not approve at first. However—that doesn't matter to me."

Yusuf looked at me in surprise, and I know I swallowed hard, but it was true, and I held his gaze. "I am a grown woman, dear—young, I suppose, but I do make my own money, and live my own life."

"True," he nodded, and I was pleased to see respect in his gaze, "but I would prefer your family's approval if possible. I know I myself will get a mild lecture about not making my intentions known before this."

That made me grin; Yusuf's mother would definitely give him a dressing down, but I suspected that she would be pleased too—she and I had always gotten along well. A thought rose in my mind; something that I was loathe to ask, but necessary, if only for the sake of my heart. "Yusuf . . . I must know—there is no-one else in your heart, is there?" I blurted. "No other . . . love?"

He gave me such a dry look; an exasperated and amused look that I felt both reassured and sheepish at the same time. "Cec-i-ly Esiankiki Barango there is you and _only _you."

I blushed, I know I did since I felt it over my face. "I . . . I needed to ask," I murmured. "You travel so much, and to so many wonderful places . . ."

"And have so many adventures," Yusuf snorted, looking down at his cast. "I work as a chemist—I'm in the background, Cecily, and even that is sometimes a little too much for my tastes. Let the world come to me from now on; I have had my fill of the adventurous life . . . that is . . ." he paused and looked at me intently, " . . . if the home I have is with you, Ceci."

"So that is . . ." I stammered, and he took my two hands, nodding.

"A proposal, as awkward and silly as the rest of this courtship, I'm afraid. I love you, and I want to marry you, very much. There are thousands of obstacles and issues now, but somehow I know in my heart that nothing, _nothing _is insurmountable because you love me too, my dove, and that is what will make this work," Yusuf finished softly. "Yes?"

Very carefully I laced my fingers with his. He has warm, wide hands, and strong fingers. "Yes," I told him, trying hard not to cry again. "Yes, Yusuf, I would like that very much."

**Yusuf**

And so I went to Paris to assist in an Extraction, and came away affianced. It's delightfully odd how the world works, and I suppose I owe Ariadne a great deal of credit for her matchmaking in this matter, unsolicited as it was.

I cannot be angry though—the outcome is too sweet, and I am still in a daze of delight in having achieved so wonderful a turn of events. Certainly it is worth a broken ankle, and much more besides, and I cannot wait to see Harsha's face when she learns the news.

The extraction went off very well; I was able to hide the pasiv under my wheelchair cushion and watch the target well after the job was done, noting that my latest batch of sedative had no hangover effect at all. When Cecily came to collect me afterwards, we celebrated the occasion by having dinner at Le Mansouria—no champagne this time, since I was still on pain medication, and Cecily would not drink it alone.

Afterwards we went back to the hotel and talked long into the night of little things and large, with kissing and cuddling a part of that as well. There was a ticklish moment when we were entwined, and I know my body wanted much more than my presence of mind wanted to give, certainly.

"Yusuf—" And Cecily's tone; the way she said my name made it easy to remember that there were proprieties and discussions yet to have, not that they would be easy.

"Cecily," I replied quietly, wondering if my confession would draw pity from her. "I must tell you something-"

"—I'm . . . a virgin," Cecily broke into my words, and for a moment there was a complete and heavy pause between us, because I wasn't sure if she was completing _my_ statement, or if she was making her own. A tricky situation.

"Yes . . . ." I offered, hoping that would clear matters a bit. I suppose for any other man, confessing such a thing would be seen as a failing; a lack of masculinity. Here I was, just over thirty, and not only unwed but inexperienced in the physical ways of love—very little could be more pathetic, in the eyes of others.

But this was Cecily, and my heart lightened when she smiled at me.

"I'm not frightened," she went on, "because I know you will be gentle with me."

"And you . . ." I took a breath, "-with me. It's only fair."

Did I ever mention how sweet Cecily's laugh is? How gentle and intimate it is when her beautiful mouth is against my own? It was easy then, to see beyond the lust of the moment and into a future together.

Odd, I know, to be inexperienced at my age, but not as uncommon as all that. Western society makes much of the issue, but for those of the third world, the cultural norms are different, and both Cecily and I are children of our traditions—a fact that will please our parents, I am sure.

The next two days were among the loveliest in my life. Cecily and I spent them together doing the grand and mundane things dictated by the schedule. She took me to the doctor, to lunch with Ariadne and Arthur, to the warehouse and back again. I in turn, took her to Van Cleef & Arpels, where I politely but firmly insisted she make a choice of ring there. Her protests did not sway me, and finally Cecily chose the smallest diamond solitaire offered, chiding me about the expense.

I had a quiet word later with the jeweler about upgrading the stone before we were to come back and pick it up, of course, because Cecily deserves more than she chooses.

This engagement does give me impetus to reconsider my connection to Dreaming altogether, too, for once we are married, the whole idea of being involved in illegal activities becomes less appealing, even for the money offered. Understand me—I am not passing judgment on the process or the players; I am merely aware that with new obligations in my life, it may be time to withdraw from the more active side of Dream chemistry.

I will NOT make my bride to be a widow, nor my future children orphans if possible.

**Cecily**

When you are in love, there are no obstacles, only inconveniences. Yusuf and I took them on together, one by one. First, my father, whom we called shortly after Yusuf bought me the ring.

He was a bit gruff over the line at first, but I know it was simply because I had caught him by surprise. Or not; Father seemed pleased at the news when I told him of the engagement, and demanded to speak to Yusuf. Nervously I handed the phone over, and could only hear my beloved's side of the conversation, which consisted of 'yes sirs' and many other reassurances.

Yusuf was slightly damp with nervous sweat when he finally handed the phone back to me twenty minutes later, but Father was much mellower than he had been at the start of the conversation. He gave me his blessing and urged us to come back to Mombasa very soon.

"I feel as if I've had my head in a lion's mouth," Yusuf told me wryly. "And now I need to shower."

"Well it is done," I told him softly. "And now we must tell _your_ parents—this may be harder; I know how issues of color can be tricky."

He smiled at me, and reached over to rub my nose. "Nonsense—we're both brown."

"That, I know," I shrugged, "But the shades . . ."

" . . . mean nothing to me," Yusuf pulled me into his arms. "I find it reprehensible that prejudice ranges from the broad shades right down to the subtle nuances, particularly among those of us of color. I am light, you are dark—so what? I love the you of _you_ Ceci, and whatever my parents think, the choice is MINE."

I ask you, how could I not love a man like that?

We flew home together at the end of the week, leaving Paris behind. I wore my ring; rather self-consciously of course, but with pride, even though the stone seemed somewhat larger than I remembered. Yusuf evaded my questions on the matter in such a way that I suspected he had upgraded it.

Home was home: hot, dusty, noisy in a way different from Paris, and full of the scents and tastes so dear to me now. Pharmakos pretended not to be happy to see us, but allowed me to pet her ears even as she settled into Yusuf's lap, purring like a motor. Abram reported on all matters, including the Dreamers in the basement, and left the pharmacy, accepting my beloved's envelope full of fifty shilling notes with a tired smile.

Customers came in, glad to find Yusuf back, and I slipped away to let my own patients know that I was home again. Maybe even a few might notice the stone on my hand, although I would not deliberately flaunt it.

Within a week, his parents, my father, and both our extended families were celebrating the engagement, and Harsha was so smug she was in danger of exploding. Much as I love my friend and future sister-in-law, even_ I_ couldn't take much more of her grinning.

"I *knew* it! You two were made for each other!" she kept telling me. "So when is the baby due?"

"Harsha!" Such a thing to ask! I know a lot of marriages start under that situation, and without the biases of other cultures, but I rolled my eyes at my best friend's conjecture. "Time enough for that _later."_

"Not with mama breathing down your neck," came her prediction. "You know how she is; family isn't family until there's a baby."

_Epilog_

**Ariadne**

I got the Email late, after dinner and . . . other things. Arthur was asleep—finally-and I had a chance to putter around and catch up on a few things I'd let pile up.

It's amazing what can happen when you least expect it, you know? But in the past year, so much has changed. Dom's come to visit Paris a few times, Eames has an apprentice studying forgery, and Arthur and I . . . well, let's just say we've realized a few very nice things about our mutual attraction.

Anyway, I opened up the Email from Yusuf, grinning because they're always charming letters. They take turns writing me, Cecily and Yusuf, and I always love their notes and pictures—makes me feel a connection to a normal life. I still have shots of their wedding in my files.

The wedding! Man, it was a heck of a party last year. All of us were invited, so Eames, Arthur and I went to Mombasa together. Dom couldn't go, but he sent a top-of-the-line rice cooker, if I remember correctly.

Anyway, the ceremony was on the beach, and the reception lasted from early afternoon until about breakfast into the next day. I'd never been to a Hindu-Christian ceremony before, but nobody there even blinked an eye. Yusuf looked incredibly handsome in a pale green satin kurta, and Cecily was in a white sari with gold sandals.

They had Cecily's father do the ceremony, with readings in Hindu in between, and I remember how he also knotted part of Yusuf's kurta to her veil after the ring ceremony.

It was funny to see how big Yusuf's family is, and how yes, there really _were _so many sisters, all of them looking pretty pleased to see their brother married off. At the reception I had a chance to meet them, including the apparent matchmaking one, Harsha, who kept bragging that she'd brought them together. Arthur and I stayed until around ten that night, after the dancing started; we left Eames behind to dazzle the Mehra sisters with his disco moves, and get some rest.

Memories—it was shortly after the wedding that Arthur and I started seeing each other in a different light.

I opened the Email, and there was a photo attachment, so I clicked it, and a gray, slightly fuzzy image came up. For a minute I couldn't figure out what I was looking at, and then as the shape took form, I blinked.

Under the sonogram was Yusuf's note: _Thank you. If you hadn't called Cecily that night in Paris, this might never have come about, dear Ariadne. Eighteen weeks and counting!_

So I'm smiling, and I think that Baby Barango-Mehra is going to be utterly gorgeous, and -

Probably isn't going to be an only child.

end


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